Page 2 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

My phone buzzes against my thigh as I lean against the bathroom counter, brushing mascara onto my already-long lashes.

I ignore it, focusing on my reflection. The dark circles under my hazel eyes betray the late nights I've spent finalizing my last three articles. I cap the mascara and reach for my phone, not surprised to see Brè’s name lighting up the screen.

“Let me guess,” I answer, “you're calling to make sure I haven't missed my flight.”

“Actually, I'm calling to make sure you're actually going to get on the plane this time.” Brè's voice carries that mix of amusement and exasperation I've become so accustomed to. “Remember Barcelona?”

I roll my eyes, though she can't see me. “That was different. A typhoon was coming.”

“It was a light rain shower, Mia.”

“Whatever.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I zip up my carry-on. “I'm packed and leaving for the airport in twenty minutes. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Brè replies. “This assignment is perfect for you. The annual Gathering in Portree is supposed to be breathtaking. Thousands of people from all over the world—and you get to be right in the middle of it.”

I feel a flutter of excitement despite myself.

“It does sound amazing. And the timing couldn't be better. Once Olympic training starts next month, I won't have time to breathe, let alone travel.”

“Which is exactly why you need to enjoy this. One last adventure before you're chained to that pool.”

Moving to my bedroom, I check my list one final time. “Passport, camera, laptop, swimsuit—”

“Swimsuit?” Brè interrupts. “This isn't a vacation, Bonney.”

“When have I ever gone anywhere without a swimsuit?” I shoot back. “Besides, the hotel has a pool.”

“And let me guess—you packed the pink waterproof vibrator too?”

I snort. “Obviously. It's my most loyal travel companion. I don’t have a boyfriend, so unless a strapping six-foot-five man in finance is volunteering for the position, Barry the Battery-Operated Boyfriend is staying strapped in my carry-on.”

“So it’s Barry now?!”

“Yup, he's dependable, quiet, and doesn’t try to mansplain backstroke to me. Honestly, he’s a catch.” I huff.

“Until he starts vibrating pre-flight take off again and gets pulled from the cargo hold like a ticking bomb.”

“That happened one time, and in my defense, it was a long layover and I didn’t realize he was pressure-sensitive.” Trying my best to sound indignant.

“You made international news, Mia.”

“And yet, still single. Go figure.” I huff.

She sighs, but I can hear her laughing. “Just get your butt on that plane and try not to cause an international incident.”

“No promises.” I say with a laugh.

She sighs dramatically. “Just promise me you'll actually talk to people while you're there. Get some quotes. Feel the atmosphere. Don't just hide in the water.”

I frown, recognizing the shift in her tone. “I don't hide.”

“Sure you do. It's your safe place. Has been since your Mum died and I get it Mia, I really do. I just want you to get out there too, live a little, chat to people, maybe even have a turn in the sheets with a handsome stranger…you know, like an actual person.”

The mention of my mother sends a familiar pang through my chest. “Can we not do this now Brè?”

“Fine, fine” she concedes. “But you know I'm right. Small towns make you shut down because they make you feel trapped after the accident, so just do me a favor and get out there okay? Maine is a great state, great people, amazing food and I’m sure you’ll love it.”

I let out a sigh and sit on the edge of my bed, suddenly feeling the weight of those memories. The boating accident that took my mother when I was twelve. The way my father's grief transformed so much into suffocating protection. The way our small coastal town became a prison rather than a home.

“This Portree assignment isn't permanent,” I remind her, and myself.

“Three days, maybe four. I'll write the piece, take some photos, and be back in time for Sunday brunch and copious quantities of mimosas.” I let out a feeble laugh,

“Sounds perfect,” Brè says, her editor voice returning. “And this piece could be huge for you, Mia. National Geographic have been sniffing around your work. Impress me with this one, and I might have to share you with the big leagues.”

That gets my attention. “Seriously? Nat Geo?”

“Seriously. Now get your ass on that plane.”

After hanging up, I do one final sweep of my apartment, making sure everything is turned off and locked up. The anticipation of a new place, new experiences send a thrill through me.

It's always been this way—the moment before departure carrying a sweet tension that nothing else can match. Not even diving into a pool at the starting signal.

But as I grab my keys, a small voice whispers inside me: You're still running. Always swimming away from something instead of toward it.

I push the thought aside. I'm not running; I'm exploring. There's a difference.

***

The flight is smooth until it isn't. We hit turbulence somewhere over the Midwest, and I grip the armrests, reminding myself that I've survived worse than a bumpy ride.

The businessman next to me, with salt-and-pepper hair, offers a sympathetic smile.

“Not a fan of flying?” he asks.

“Not a fan of not being in control,” I reply honestly.

He nods. “Heading out for business or pleasure?”

“Work actually. I'm covering the annual Gathering in Portree.” I say with a forced smile.

His brows shoot up. “In Portree, Texas? Didn’t realize they had anything like that here in the South.”

The moment the words Texas a nd South leaves his mouth, a weird, icy sensation crawls down my spine.

“Texas?” I laugh—tight, awkward. “No, I’m going to Portree, Maine . Wellington is just the stopover.”

He blinks at me. Slowly. Like I’ve just told him I’m on my way to Narnia.

Then, casually, and slowly as if he’s trying not to make any sudden movements, he pulls out his phone and taps a few times.

“Hate to break it to you, honey,” he says, slow and careful, like I’m a skittish horse, “but Maine’s in the complete opposite direction.

This flight’s headed to Wellington, Texas and yeah we do have a Portree here…

” He pauses, talking in soft calm voice as he gauges my reaction.

“You know... in the South. Real Southern. Boots. Barbecues. Actual cowboys.”

I stare at him. My brain short-circuits. “No. No, that’s... that’s not right.”

As if the universe wants to double down on my unravelling, the captain’s voice crackles over the speaker, cheerfully announcing our descent into Wellington, Texas , and the lovely weathe r we can expect on the ground as we decent.

My stomach drops through the plane floor.

I rip open my bag, yanking out my phone like it personally betrayed me and scroll furiously until I find it: the confirmation email from Brè’s shiny new intern niece.

Portree. Great.

Portree, Texas. Accessible by car from Wellington Airport (approx. 45 minutes).

Dammit.

I slump back in my seat, absolutely floored. How did this happen? I don’t make mistakes. I am meticulous, organized, double-check-my-toothbrush type of prepared. And yet—here I am.

Wrong plane. Wrong state. Wrong damn coast.

And, as if to really rub it in, the guy next to me pats my arm and says, “Well, on the bright side… at least it ain’t snowin’.”

I clench my teeth, plastering on a fake smile and debate if today’s the day my intrusive thoughts win out on a stranger. I could just cry or strangle him. Honestly, it could go either way.

My stomach clenches. “Shit,” I mutter. “ Shit, shit, shit .”

Letting go of control is a mistake I will never make again.

I should’ve checked the itinerary. Like a rookie traveler, I just saw Wellington on the departure board and got on the plane, but I should’ve triple-checked it like I normally would have.

But noooo , I was too busy shaking hands, smiling for flashing cameras, and answering the same three damn press questions on repeat.

How does it feel to win again? What’s next for your swimming career? Will you retire on top?

I mean, I’m twenty-three. I just won another swimming gold medal, not a lifetime achievement award.

As we touch down and I stride through Wellington airport with my phone pressed to my ear, the reality of my situation becomes increasingly clear with each unanswered ring.

“Come on, Brè. Pick up,” I mutter, weaving through crowds of travelers.

She finally answers “Mia! You landed! How is Maine? How’s the hotel? Is it as eco-chic as promised?” her voice beams through the phone.

“Yeah, about that… I’m going to find your intern niece and sacrifice her to the travel gods with a flaming boarding pass.”

A pause. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” I bark. “ UH-OH? I’m in Texas, Brè. Freaking. Texas.”

“The Gathering I'm supposed to cover—it's in Portree, Maine, right?” the hopeless desperation palpable in my voice.

“Of course it is! Portree Maine is a coastal town known for—”

“I’m in WELLINGTON, TEXAS!” I interrupt her. “You know what Wellington doesn’t have? An ocean. You know what it does have? Heatstroke. Dust. Men named Hank. And oh, surprise, a completely different Portree located about an hour from here!”

Brè’s warm laugh flows through the line. “Okay, okay—breathe. Deep, grounding breaths, darling.”

“I am one iced coffee away from committing a felony.”

Stopping at the baggage claim area, I scan the carousel for my suitcase. The carousel starts moving, and I watch as bags begin their journey around the belt. None of them are mine.

Brè goes silent for a moment. “Listen, I can fix this.” I hear her tapping away on her keyboard. “Okay, let me see what’s happened here. Oh, I see, yep, yep, oh no.”

I draw in one last steady breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and whisper a silent prayer—clinging to whatever calm I have left.

“What do you see?”

“Okay, so… minor plot twist,” she says, her voice too chipper to be safe. “Chloe may have—technically—booked the wrong tickets “